The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth #3)(48)
You frown and nearly look away from Jija. Un-roggas?
“Not that it ever happened.” The young man sighs and adjusts his cane for comfort. “And not that we’d have taken in a kid who used to be one of them, right? What if that kid grew up and had kids who were wrong, too? Got to breed the taint out somehow. Anyway, the girl minded her father well enough until a few weeks ago. Neighbors said they heard him shouting at her one night, and then she moved up here to the compound with the others. You could see how the change sort of… untied Jija. He started talking to himself about how she wasn’t his daughter anymore. Cursing out loud, now and again. Hitting things – walls and such – when he thought you weren’t looking.
“And the girl, she pulled away. Can’t say I blame her; everybody was on eggshells around him for that while. Always the quiet ones, right? So I saw her hanging around Schaffa more. Like a duckling, always right there in his shadow. Whenever he’d hold still, she’d take his hand. And he —” The young man eyes you warily. “Don’t usually see you lot being affectionate. But he seemed to think the world of her. I hear he nearly killed Jija when the man came at her, actually.”
The hand that you don’t have twinges again, but it is more tentative this time and not the throb of before. Because… he wouldn’t have had to break Nassun’s hand, would he? No, no, no. You did that to her yourself. And Uche was another broken hand, inflicted by Jija. Schaffa protected her from Jija. Schaffa was affectionate with her, as you struggled to be. And now everything inside you shudders at the thought that follows, and it takes the willpower that has destroyed cities to keep this shudder internal, but…
But…
How much more welcome would a Guardian’s conditional, predictable love have been to Nassun, after her parents’ unconditional love had betrayed her again and again?
You close your eyes for a moment, because you don’t think Guardians cry.
With an effort, you say, “What is this place?”
He looks at you in surprise, then glances at Hoa, a ways behind you. “This is the comm of Jekity, Guardian. Though Schaffa and the others —” He gestures around you, at the compound. “They called this part of the comm ‘Found Moon.’”
Of course they did. And of course Schaffa already knew the secrets of the world that you’ve paid in flesh and blood to learn.
In your silence, the young man regards you thoughtfully. “I can introduce you to the headwoman. I know she’ll be glad to have Guardians around again. Good help against raiders.”
You’re looking at Jija again. You see one piece of jewel in the perfect likeness of a pinky finger. You know that pinky finger. You kissed that pinky finger —
It’s too much, you can’t do this, you’ve got to get a grip, get out of here before you break down any further. “I – I n-need —” Deep breath for calm. “I need some time to consider the situation. Would you go and let your headwoman know I’ll come pay my respects shortly?”
The young man side-gazes you for a moment, but you know now that it’s not a bad thing if you seem a little off. He’s used to Guardian-style offness. Perhaps because of this, he nods and shuffles back awkwardly. “Can I ask you a question?”
No. “Yes?”
He bites his lip. “What’s going on? It feels like… Nothing that’s happening is normal lately. I mean, it’s a Season, but even that feels wrong. Guardians not taking roggas to the Fulcrum. Roggas doing things nobody’s ever heard of them doing.” He chin-points toward the pile of Jija. “Whatever the rust went on up north. Even those things in the sky, the obelisks… It’s all… People are talking. Saying maybe the world’s not going to go back to normal. Ever.”
You’re staring at Jija, but you’re thinking of Alabaster. Don’t know why.
“One person’s normal is another person’s Shattering.” Your face aches from smiling. There is an art to smiling in a way that others will believe, and you’re terrible at it. “Would’ve been nice if we could’ve all had normal, of course, but not enough people wanted to share. So now we all burn.”
He stares at you for a long, vaguely horrified moment. Then he mumbles something and finally goes away, skirting wide around Hoa. Good riddance.
You crouch beside Jija. He is beautiful like this, all jewels and colors. He is monstrous like this. Beneath the colors you perceive the crazed every-which-wayness of the magic threads in him. It’s wholly different from what happened to your arm and your breast. He has been smashed apart and rearranged at random, on an infinitesimal level.
“What have I done?” you ask. “What have I made her?”
Hoa’s toes have appeared in your peripheral vision. “Strong,” he suggests.
You shake your head. Nassun was that on her own.
“Alive.”
You close your eyes again. It’s the only thing that should matter, that you’ve brought three babies into the world and this one, this precious last one, is still breathing. And yet.
I made her me. Earth eat us both, I made her into me.